


But Your Windows are Open

by nahemaraxe (zephyrina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Fluff and Crack, Human Gabriel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyrina/pseuds/nahemaraxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam meant to break into Jess' house. Honest. It's not his fault if Gabriel's got in the way, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Your Windows are Open

At the moment, there are few precious little things Sam is sure about. One is that he gave the cab driver the right street name; two is that Jess lives on this side of the road; three is that he’s so drunk he can’t see straight. Think straight.

He has a very good reason for that though - passing finals with flying colors doesn’t happen everyday - so it doesn’t really matter. All he has to do now is get inside Jess’ apartment, flop on the couch, and sleep it off. She will probably wake him up with a bucket of water, and for some reasons, that sounds just about right to Sam. He’d do the same if he caught his best friend snoring in the living room and smelling like he lost a few rounds with a liquor store. 

With caution, Sam leans against a streetlight and squints. Right street, check. Right side of the road, check. Right house, well… Jess lives in front of the pretentious Victorian-wannabe place (Sam turns around, check) and mentioned the flickering streetlight (check and ow, his eyes), so that must be it.

“Good,” Sam says out loud. He supposes he should feel a bit stupid, talking to himself like that, but there’s no one around to witness… um, both that and what’s about to become a full-on ‘breaking into other people’s propriety’ attempt. Yes, because as soon as Sam reaches the front door, he realizes that the spare key Jess keeps in the potted plant is not, in fact, in the potted plant. To be honest, there’s not even said potted plant to begin with.

Since the door is a no-go - Sam briefly considers barreling into it, but he soon discards the idea, as it might be misinterpreted - then the window will have to do. It’s not closed, just left ajar, and if he drags the trash can under it, he’ll be able to hop inside.

It takes him three attempts: one aborted right from the start, as an angry cat jumps from behind the can and hisses the shit out of him; one that counts as half-victory, given that he slips when he’s about to hoist himself on the windowsill; and one that actually has him up and inside Jess’ apartment.

“Whoa,” he says, grinning at himself. Getting on his feet proves to be tricky but doable, and he leans to the right for support, expecting to find the edge of the bookcase. Surprise, surprise, his hand finds only air and Sam goes back to square one: with his ass on the floor.

This is so weird. Where’s the bookcase? Did Jess decide to do some drastic spring cleaning? Because now that his eyes are adjusting to the darkness, Sam can tell that the room looks odd. The basic living room furniture is there, sure, but it’s all reorganized. The coffee table is a few inches away from his knee, say, while he knows for a fact that it should be closer to the door (he smacked his shin into it too many times to forget about its location, thank you), and the stupid bookcase is nowhere to be seen.

Sam makes a mental note to ask Jess about her sudden attack of Feng Shui and crawls to the couch. Rya should be there, sprawled over the cushions, but Jess’ oversize dog has vacated the place, too. Figures, Sam thinks. If Rya were in, she would have barked up a lung upon seeing him and slobbered all over his face. What doesn’t figure much is the cat parked on the couch armrest.

“Hey, sweetie. You another stray Jess picked up?”

If cats could talk, this one would be saying ‘you’ve really got to have your head checked’ right now. Sam’s sure about it.

He shakes his head - carefully, as his happy-go-lucky drunken state is turning into a hangover already - and flops on the couch. After a couple of tossing and turning rounds, he decides to get rid of his shirt. The room is too warm to keep it up, and it’s not that Jess will be fazed by it anyway.

______________

Jess is not fazed by it, definitely, because Jess’s not there.

When Sam wakes up, feeling like he’s been steamrolled by a giant bottle of vodka, the voice he hears is way too masculine to belong to Jess. He can’t make out the words just yet, but the tone is about as un-Jess as it can be.

He’s wondering if he should open his eyes to find out what’s going on, when something small and light hits him square on the nose.

“That’s a three-pointer, Sasquatch.”

That voice again. Then there’s a ripping sound, a crumpling sound, and tap, another small-slash-light thing hits him, this time on his shoulder. Before he manages to open his eyes for good - damn, why are his eyelids so heavy? - two more whateverthingies land on him.

“It’d be easier if you stopped moving, you know.”

The ‘hey, asshole, stop throwing stuff at me’ Sam wants to say comes out as a jumbled pile of vowels and consonants. In theory it’s because he’s so hungover he wants to crawl in a hole and die; basically it’s because there’s a guy he doesn’t know in a room he doesn’t recognize at all. Feng Shui doesn’t move doors from one wall to another, neither does it will fireplaces into existence.

“Fireplace’s fake. No reason to stare at it like it’s the second coming.”

Sam shifts his attention back to the guy: he’s crumpling a paper ball in his hands, and hey, but he’s cute. And hot. Or maybe Sam’s just hallucinating things. His head does pound, after all.

“Uh,” Sam says. No, that’s not right. He licks his lips, grimaces, coughs, tries again. “Who are you?”

“Glad you decided to join the conversation, but shouldn’t that be my line?”

“Uh?”

Hot Guy - who, by the way, owns both the awesomest pair of eyes Sam’s ever seen and also the rattiest pair of jeans known to humanity - rolls his eyes, then flicks the paper ball at him before leaning forward.

“Kiddo, you smell like a distillery, so I’m gonna keep it easy: the sight’s real pretty, but before you show up half-naked at my place, shouldn’t we be on a first name basis at least?”

“Your… place?” Sam says. He’s aware he’s parroting Hot Guy and making a fool of himself, but his brain is still trying to catch up with everything. This can’t be Hot Guy’s house because he broke into Jess’ house, and…

Realization clicks in the very next second.

“Shit.”

Hot Guy makes a non-committal noise, but he doesn’t look pissed. Amused, and a bit blindsided maybe, but not pissed. Something at last, Sam thinks while he sits up. He moves slowly, careful to keep his balance. He feels nauseous enough as it is, and he doesn’t really want to throw up on Hot Guy’s shoes.

“Look, I’m so sorry,” he says then, scratching his neck and hoping to god he’s not blushing. Just to be on the safe side, he keeps his eyes on Hot Guy’s hands as he speaks. It also helps with the headache, anyway. “I thought it was my friend, um, Jess’ place, and I don’t know how I didn’t realize before it wasn’t… I mean, it all looked weird, but I figured… it was… that. Um. Yeah.”

“Close enough, Jess lives right next door. I’m giving you a B minus for the effort.” Hot Guy pulls a Snickers bar out of his pocket and gestures around with it. “You’re Jess’ boyfriend, then?”

Sam looks up. He’s imagining things, he sure is, but Hot Guy sounds a bit disappointed.

“No, no. She’s my best friend, that’s all.”

Okay, the grin spreading on Hot Guy’s face is definitely real. “Hey, great! So, about the first name basis thing I mentioned before, I’m Gabriel, but you can call me ‘Jess’ hot, single, and very available neighbor’ if you want.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows are doing some acrobatics, too, and Sam fights the urge to laugh. Subtle as a brick, this one.

“Well, hi, Gabriel. I’m Sam, and you can call me Sam,” he answers.

“Samsquatch it is. Cool.”

Gabriel gets on his feet (he’s a bit on the short side, but it only adds to the cute, at least in Sam’s eyes) and lends him a hand.

“You’re hungover and you already slept at my place, so what’s about breakfast? Black coffee for you, pancakes with maple syrup for me. Sounds good?”

“Sounds awesome,” Sam says, and this time the grin is on his face, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to blame this Tumblr prompt for this one: http://tickatocka.tumblr.com/post/85456038831/i-really-want-an-i-accidentally-broke-into-your
> 
> Many thanks to Valentina for holding my hand and reading it over.


End file.
